


Hunger Like a Storm (Touch)

by DaintyDuck_99



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Eventual Romance, Fluff, God bless Bill Hader, Happy Endings Only!, Light Angst, M/M, Sexual Tension, Some sexual themes in chapter four, Why is Stan Me IRL, they're like 17 in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-10-14 08:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20597759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaintyDuck_99/pseuds/DaintyDuck_99
Summary: Or: Five Times Richie Finds an Excuse to Touch Eddie, and the One Time He Doesn't Need To





	1. Home

The first time it happens, Eddie shrugs it off as delirium. Richie seems fairly sick, after all. Eddie couldn’t even bear to scold the scrawny teen for clinging to him and depositing all of his germs on Eddie’s right side, where he slumps and shifts restlessly. 

“Why don’t I take you home?” Eddie murmurs into his damp curls. He feels Richie wince and his stomach twinges in sympathy, the somatization of negative feelings that aren’t even his own. 

“No,” Richie whispers, and the one syllable is heavy like a stone. Eddie thinks he understands; Richie has never liked being home for reasons that he has never cared to elaborate on, and although Eddie has his suspicions, he has never asked, never dared to bypass the careful boundaries of the snarky web that defines their relationship. Eddie would rather peer at Richie through the delicate strands of sass and teenage bravado, snatching glimpses of his half-moon smile and freckle-kissed cheeks, than to rip the web away and risk seeing disgust contorting his features. 

“Okay,” Eddie settles on whispering back. Without warning, Richie plants his face in the crook of Eddie’s shoulder, nearly sending the two of them tumbling off of the narrow cafeteria bench. Thankfully, the other Losers are there, and they currently outnumber Bower’s jeering cronies, so Eddie feels relatively safe when he flips them off with fervor. 

Then, Richie inhales like he is trying to consume Eddie, and he blushes violently. 

“Rich…” Eddie mumbles in a half-hearted rebuttal. The other teen mutters something into the curve of Eddie’s neck that sounds suspiciously like ‘I am home’. 

“Come on,” Eddie coaxes, unable to prevent a tinge of fondness from slipping into his voice. Bill helps him guide Richie to his car, and Eddie ends up smuggling him into his own house in spite of the germs. 

He misses the looks the other Losers send them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from the lyrics to Touch by Daft Punk. The song begins gradually and builds into a momentum (like this story will, hopefully!). 
> 
> Also, I edited the amount of chapters (I may consolidate some later) because while I can kind of write, I CAN'T do math.


	2. Happy

The second time it really happens, it's too conspicuous for Eddie to excuse. Richie is hale and hearty and his _asshole_-self again, meaning that Richie is trying to just trying to get a rise out of him. Surely that's all, the same vitriolic script they've been following since they were twelve. __

_ _"You do realize that we're _not_ twelve anymore, right?" Eddie grumbles into Richie's back. He only laughs brightly in response, and the sound is as brilliant as the North Star, high and clear and beautiful. As much as he loves Richie's laugh, it only slightly lessens his disgruntled feelings over being hoisted up over the taller boy's shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He's eye level with Ben now, actually--is this how the other boy sees the world all of the time? No wonder he's such a poet. _ _

_ _"I mean, you did sort of indirectly ask to be carried," Ben observes. Eddie scowls. He takes it back; Ben's not a poet. He's a conniving master of rhetoric whose linguistic powers are too great for any one man to wield. _ _

_ _"Stop being so dramatic, Eds," Richie chimes in, the bastard. _ _

_ _"I didn't say anything!" Richie hums in response. _ _

_ _"Yeah, but you were thinking loudly. I can tell." Eddie rolls his eyes, exasperated and inexplicably fond at the same time. _ _

_ _"When you two are done flirting, I would like to re-take the lead since Richie's shortcut is bullshit," Stan cuts in. Eddie sputters and Richie squawks, although Richie seems more offended about the latter allegation. _ _

_ _"Bold of you to assume that I can't flirt and lead at the same time, Stanley. I happen to be amazing at multitasking." _ _

_ _"You aren't and you can't." Stan responds flatly in a tone that books no argument, squeezing past the others to change the course of the group. _ _

_ _Eventually, they make it to the record store, but Eddie isn't really paying attention anymore. The word "flirting", the way he didn't deny it, the smell of Richie's jacket--they keep skipping in his mind._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't plan for Stan to take over the end of the chapter, but he is literally me in group projects and I love him.


	3. Harbor

Eddie is a little more prepared for the third time. Actually, he might have coordinated it himself. 

The rest of the Losers are all busy-Mike has to help his grandpa, Ben, Bill, and Stan all have extra-curricular activities, and Beverly is visiting her aunt. Eddie is tired of being trapped in the house with his mother; he doesn't know if the too-tidy house itself is oppressive, or if the aura comes from her. Their imposing natures mingle and blur together like blood in water until Eddie can't see, can't breathe. So he calls Richie.

It's not all out of desperation, Eddie tells himself as the phone rings. He hastily wipes his palms on his pink shorts (he _knows_ they aren't exactly fashionable, but they look good on him and they feel great, fuck-you-very-much, Richie). He really does miss the other boy, confounding feelings aside. For all of their bickering-maybe because of it-Richie is his best friend. 

"Henderson's Morgue, you stab 'em, we slab em! How can I direct yer call? This is ol' Eight Ball speaking." Eddie thinks that he simultaneously goes through all five stages of grief. 

'Why do I like this man? Why am I about to do what I'm about to do?' He asks himself wearily. Nevertheless, he perseveres. 

"I know it's you, asshole. I've had your phone number memorized since like the third grade. Anyway," he pushes on before Richie can turn it into a pissing contest and say some shit like 'Well I've known yours since I was in the womb,' "I can't stay here anymore. Do you want to go to Bar Harbor with me?" His heart is furiously pounding like a herd of wild horses, and he feels dizzy. He can picture Richie grinning into the receiver, thrilled and brilliant, the way he always smiles at Eddie. He expects Richie to crack another joke, but instead, all he says is-

"When?" 

Richie drives; Eddie would never admit it, but he loves to watch him like this, confident and carefree. When he puts his lanky arm behind the seat to back out of Eddie's driveway, something sparks low in his stomach. They roll down the windows on the highway as they stream out of Derry, screaming the words to their favorite songs. Before, Eddie was underwater; now, he is enveloped in the warmth of Richie's car, Richie's songs, Richie's laughter, Richie. 

Eddie shivers once they finally get to the beach. In his euphoria over leaving, he had forgotten to grab a jacket. Wordlessly, Richie slides his leather one over Eddie's shoulders. He thinks about protesting, but there is no one around to hear, no one to oversee the derailing of their usual belligerent script, so he simply leans into Richie, and it feels right. 

If Ben had been there to see it, misty-eyed, he would've told them that a harbor can also be a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richie's morgue line is from a text post; sadly, I cannot take credit for it.


	4. Help

His scowl was probably seared into Richie's brain, Eddie thought as the other teen reached for him conspicuously for the fourth time. Eddie was pinned against the shelves that housed all of the Loser's comic books in the club house. He had been standing there for some time, trying to figure out how to return the Spider-Man comic to the top shelf without climbing them, which had resulted in a small avalanche, an impressive storm of swearing from Eddie himself and Bev, a litany of chiding from Stan, Bill, and Ben, and a bark of laughter ("Of concern!") from Richie the last time Eddie had tried it. Maybe Richie really had been concerned then, because he is leaning towards Eddie earnestly now, trying to snatch the comic from him. 

"Dude, just let me get it. Do you really wanna explain another cut to Mrs. K? I mean, I would cover for you, and pretend to be into your blood kink and all, but I wouldn't want to give her the idea that I'm two-timing her, ya know?" Between Richie's outstretched arms, Eddie glimpses Stan making a face before he marks down a tally, probably, Eddie supposes, of gross kinks that Richie won't shut up about.

(Actually, it's even more specific than that-it's a tally of gross kinks that Richie has mentioned in regards to Eddie and/or his mom to specifically get a rise out of Eddie. Stan later slaps the notepad to Richie's chest and tells him to make an actual move, which renders Richie immobile for a solid three-hundred seconds.)

"It's not about that, dickhead. I just like to do some things for myself." Eddie mumbles the last part as he looks at the ground. He has been wrestling with himself lately, trying to figure out what exactly makes him unique from his friends. Sometimes, he feels like he couldn't do anything without them, or like he isn't good at anything without them-he feels like a loser, not a Loser. Richie seems to understand; as Eddie's gaze darts back up, the other teen's angular face has softened, although his eyes are still swimming with a current of mirth. Slowly, Richie drops his hands and exhales. 

"Okay," he says. Eddie smiles, the chesire one that he usually reserves for Richie when he stops acting like a dick, but he should have known better. Richie's eyes have never lied to him. 

"What the hell, Richie?" Eddie snaps as he is hoisted into the air. He can see over Richie's curly nest of hair. Beverly gives him a bemused look from where she is curled up next to Ben. Richie shrugs, and the corners of his lips tremble like he's trying not to laugh. His large hands feel like twin suns on Eddie's hips, scalding him. It's simultaneously too much and not enough. 

"You said you wanted to do it yourself, so. I would've let you climb me like a tree but-" the rest of the double entendre is mercifully swallowed by a hasty chorus of "BEEP BEEP, ASSHOLE!" Eddie swallows, suddenly aware of how dry his throat is. "But yeah. I figured this way, you're still doing it. I'm just your personal step-ladder." Ben snorts at that, trying to turn it into a cough as the others shoot him concerned glances. 

(Unbeknownst to the others, his sudden fit is a result of Bev whispering "We already know that he wants Eddie to step on him.")

Eddie takes advantage of the moment and twists around to shove the comic into it's slot. Spinning back around, he lightly wacks Richie's shoulders. 

"Alright; put me down, you troglodyte." As Richie gasps and pretends to be offended, taking his sweet time in lowering Eddie to the floor, Eddie thinks that he must have some worth in order to have attracted such a brilliant star into his orbit, and his cheeks burn like the palms of Richie's hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how I feel about this one. It got more angsty and sexual than I expected. As always, I love Stan though.


	5. Hammock

Eddie thinks that he's ready now, but he isn't, not quite.

The fifth time that Richie touches him conspicuously, Eddie is splayed in the clubhouse hammock as much as his short limbs will allow-there is still empty space at the foot of it. He may or may not be being dramatic; at any rate, he deserved better than an 89 on his history paper. A fucking 89! One point away from an A, and for what? Because Mrs. Anderson disagreed with his views of Christopher Columbus? The man was a certified racist sadist-

Eddie is shaken from his inner fuming when Richie drapes himself comfortably on top of Eddie, stretching to eclipse him and the previously-leftover space. Suddenly, all thoughts of Christopher Columbus' assholery fly out of his head. Eddie freezes for a second, then relaxes. They've shared the hammock before, but there has always been a grand show of vitriol beforehand, and it usually ends in some sort of wrestling or ticking match. Richie has never simply laid down with him like this, with no bickering and without preamble. He is curled around Eddie like the sun licking the ocean or the stars blanketing the sky, like he belongs there.

"What's up, Rich?" Eddie murmurs. Thankfully, Richie's front is pressed to his back, so he can't see the the way Eddie's throat bobs up and down like a bird that can't decide if it's trying to fly. He can't see the crimson feathering Eddie's cheeks or feel the heat radiating from them. Eddie, however, can feel the gallop of Richie's heartbeat, bobbing frantically like his own throat. He's nervous, too, Eddie realizes. Somehow, it's paradoxically comforting. 

(Maybe he is ready after all.)

"I didn't feel like fighting," Richie whispers back, "We always end up sharing anyway, and Stan might actually murder us if we interrupt his study session." Eddie casts a furtive glance towards Stan. He is resting his book on Bill's back, but his eyes are burning a hole into the thing. He's staring so intently that it's a wonder Bill can stand it, but he seems to be listening to music. 

Eddie looks away before Stan senses him staring and decides to murder him anyway for still technically interrupting; he would probably also murder Richie by proxy (and because-well-it's Richie-they actually bicker like cats and dogs, unlike the more amicable bickering he and Eddie normally do). His eyes fasten on Richie's wrist, which is dangling near his face. Richie has nice hands, Eddie thinks, and he doesn't feel ashamed. 

"Okay," Eddie breathes. Richie tentatively rests his head in the crook of Eddie's shoulder, sort of like he did the time that he was sick, except he seems so uncertain, now. Well-that won't do. Forget the web that was separating them. Eddie wants to experience the entire galaxy that he has only glimpsed in fleeting smiles and leather sleeves and too-warm hands. He burrows his nose into Richie's curls and lays a butterfly kiss on his temple, light and sweet. His hand curls around Richie's in a way that mimics Richie's sheltering of Eddie's body. "Okay," he repeats, and Richie reciprocates by gently pressing his lips to Eddie's neck. It feels like a promise.

(Neither of them see Stan smirking from his perch in the corner.)


	6. Home: Redux

Richie still cannot believe just how lucky he is.

Eddie is already standing in front of the altar, and he looks stunning in his dark red suit. He smiles tenderly once he glimpses Richie, and he blossoms like a flower that is reaching for its sun, radiant. 

That's me, Richie thinks dazedly, I'm his sun, and he almost swoons. Stan catches him before he can make a fool of himself in front of their closest friends-the people who have already seen him at the peak of his tomfoolery. Well, it's the thought that counts, Richie supposes, and a tendril of fondness creeps into his voice when he says "Thanks, Stan the Man." Stan only chuckles and attempts to pluck a large wrinkle out of Richie's white suit. 

"We can't have you getting cold feet, you know," he murmurs to Richie as they begin to walk down the aisle, and Richie snorts. Stan shoots him a bemused look. 

"It's more like hot feet-" he begins, but before he can explain any further (or more likely, get beep-beeped), they reach the altar. Stan falls back in-line with Bill, their man of honor and Eddie's escort.

(Beverly had been mildly offended that she, too, did not get to defy gender roles by being the best woman, but she understood why Richie's escort had to be Stan. They all understood.) 

As the minister begins his spiel, Richie only has eyes for Eddie. Although the shorter man has sharper features now, his big doe eyes have never changed. Even now, they suit him. They are a lighthouse, the beacon of familiarity that always guides Richie home. He remembers seeing concern in them when Richie was so sick that he couldn't walk, or when he didn't want to go back to his parent's house. He remembers embers of mischief and desire whenever they made excuses to touch one another, in the hammock and in his car and at Bar Harbor. But most of all, he remembers hard copper promises and dark chocolate declarations of love. Huh. Not as catchy as January embers. Maybe he should leave the touchy-feel-y stuff to Ben. 

Richie is brought back to Earth by a familiar pinch. He telegraphs a glare to Stan that reads, "Really, asshole?" Stan simply mouths "I do" at him as though he is a moron. He isn't; his brain simply lags like a 2005 Dell Desktop computer whenever he's drooling over Eddie. Speaking of the devil, the bastard is smirking like he anticipated this.

Richie briefly debates playing dumb and being an asshole back to Stan, but then he has a vision of Eddie smothering him with a pillow in their Honeymoon suite and decides against it. 

No, Richie has never been particularly good with words, or feelings, or responding appropriately in the moment, but when he grasps Eddie's hands and pulls him into his orbit, he knows that he is home when he finally says, "I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I was going to call this chapter "Hobby" and have the idea be that Eddie is Richie's hobby because I thought that was cute, but while I was writing, it circled back to being more about home again, so here we are. I hope I did alright writing in Richie's voice! Thanks to everyone for the wonderful feedback and for reading this far.


End file.
